From the Weekend

Last Saturday I went to one of Toronto's oldest churches for a bit of research. Whilst I was there, I noticed the light on in the confessional. As I have not been fro some time, I went in and confessed, finished my brief research, and returned home.

I should explain something here: I don't like going to confession. Never have. I suppose it's pride. I just don't like admitting I was wrong, though it seems to me I do it fairly often. Puff disagrees- she thinks I don't admit I'm wrong often enough. As a result of my attitude towards confession, I don't often take communion, as my soul is only rarely in any state to receive such a grace- if my soul can be said to ever be fit to receive that grace.

As a result, I could go to Communion on Sunday with my children. I had not realized what this meant to my elder daughter until I mentioned it to her on the way to church. "You'll take communion with me?" she said. "Oh good." Then she looked at me seriously. "Daddy, please, please try and be good for a while. I want us to go up to communion together more often."

I sometimes forget who's watching me, and how much. I need to be good not merely for my own sake, but for the sake of my daughters' as well, for they see and look to me for guidance, not only in my words, but in my actions as well. In my poverty, there are many things I can't afford to give my children. Though it costs nothing, I can't afford not to give my children a good example. There are many things I can give my children, but if I fail to give them a good example, I will have given them nothing.